


Splitting Lips and Splitting Hairs

by pastelplugins



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Red Cullen (Dragon Age), Red Hawke (Dragon Age), Templars (Dragon Age), fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelplugins/pseuds/pastelplugins
Summary: If you hit something hard enough, it’ll take a different shape.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Cullen Rutherford (one-sided)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Splitting Lips and Splitting Hairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheThirdAmell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdAmell/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Accursed Ones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3584736) by [TheThirdAmell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdAmell/pseuds/TheThirdAmell). 



> This is a fic of a fic, which means it probably isn’t going to make a lot of sense without having read the parent fic. It also probably won’t make a lot of sense without getting the deep lore from [TheThirdAmell](https://thethirdamell.tumblr.com/)‘s tags on random Tumblr posts and then messaging them directly for clarification on those tags. This fic will appeal to no one.
> 
> Here’s what you need to know:
> 
>   1. Cullen had a crush on an Amell warden in the circle in DA:O 
>   2. Amell protected the mages after the demon incident netting Cullen disapproval
>   3. Cullen holds grudges and trauma
>   4. Amell and Hawke are cousins and look alike 
>   5. That’s a good enough excuse for Cullen 
>   6. Bethany has been sent to the Circle 
> 


It’s late when Cullen gets the call. He’s just about to wrap up shift for the day and head to the washrooms when someone knocks at his door. 

“Come in.”

Elsa, the Knight-Commander’s personal assistant, stands just at the threshold of his office. She’s a young girl, probably close to 18 or 19 if Cullen had to guess, with soft features, lingering baby fat and the most striking pale blue eyes Cullen has ever seen. Her shoulder length strawberry-blond hair is twisted up in braids that frame her face and crown her head, parted expertly to showcase the light pink sunburst brand emblazoned in the center of her forehead. She’s one of the numerous tranquil mages who wander the Kirkwall Circle and one of the few Cullen actually knows by name. 

“Yes?” He prompts. 

“Knight-Command Meredith has requested your assistance in apprehending a family in Lowtown who stands accused of harboring an apostate,” Elsa says in a monotone, skipping right to the point. The tranquil were not known for their small talk. “The Knight-Commander has insisted upon taking care of the mage herself but would like you to take a small regiment to locate her mother, uncle and brother.”

Cullen raises an eyebrow and sets his pen in its well. “Do we have reason to believe the family is aware of our intention to arrest them? It’s late to be traveling to Lowtown and I’m not keen on having to fend off the Coterie and Dog Lords.” Sure, Darktown scum rarely bother the templars, but it was well past sunset and Cullen wanted a warm bath and a warm bed. 

“The Knight-Commander has insisted.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“She has insisted.”

A brief standoff ensues that Cullen knows he is going to lose, but nevertheless holds out hope that through the fog of indifference, Elsa will find it in her phlegmatic heart to take pity on him and return to Meredith with a convincing ‘How about tomorrow?’ that will somehow persuade the Knight-Commander to not send him all the way across the channel just before Fourth Bell. 

When it becomes obvious Elsa is planning to do no such thing, Cullen sighs heavily and leans back in his chair to rub his eyes. 

“Alright, fine,” he says in a tone that is definitely not whining. “Who are we picking up?”

“You will be in charge of detaining Leandra Amell, Gamlen Amell, and Garrett Hawke. Knight-Commander Meredith suggests a regiment of four or five and requests you take some of the new recruits so they may familiarize themselves with the process. She also would like—” But by then Cullen has tuned her out, the drumming of his pulse in his ears much too loud to hear anything else. 

The Amells. Hawke. The young Hawke girl was an apostate. And the Amells have been concealing her. _Garrett Hawke_ has been concealing her. Hiding a mage. An apostate. Illegally. Which is a hanging offense. The family would hang. 

Garrett Hawke was going to hang. 

Cullen stands from his desk abruptly, cutting Elsa off in the middle of her briefing as a rush of giddy anticipation eclipses any exhaustion he’d been feeling. He’s rounded the desk and made it halfway out the door before he remembers he’s still in plain clothes. 

Right. He hadn’t been scheduled offsite today. He’ll need to grab his armor, sword and shield from his chamber before he can head out. He’ll also need to find a sister and collect another lyrium potion. His last dose is already wearing off and he won’t be alert without it. Cullen quickly changes direction to make for the barracks instead. 

“Knight-Captain,” Elsa starts but Cullen cuts her off. 

“Yes, yes. Collect whoever the Knight-Commander has assigned me and tell them to be at the docks in twenty minutes,” he calls over his shoulder as he hustles down the corridor. 

The night air is chilly and Cullen immediately regrets not opting for the double padded doublet. The fall was slowly transitioning to winter but in that innocuous way that makes it too hot at noon for a coat. 

Instead of taking the extra time to strip off his armor, Cullen opts to toss the shawl Mia had sewn him two winters ago over his suit. It does precious little to keep him warm, sitting on top of ice cold metal as it is, but the fur collar at least does something for his neck. Regulation specifies that dress code be enforced during active duty, but Cullen chooses to believe this doesn’t count as “on the clock.” And he’s cold. He hates being cold. 

Outside the Gallows, a small unit of rookies are chatting at the docks. One is leaning against a large mooring while the other three make a loose semi-circle around him. Cullen suspects four is overkill for this assignment, but they’ve had fewer and fewer opportunities to take the recruits out on missions that weren’t actively life-threatening. Hawke will be the only real threat tonight, and even then Cullen intends on taking care of him personally. The kids just need to get some experience under their belt. The most senior of the group had barely been here three months and seen little outside the Gallow walls. 

“Recruits Hugh, Paxley, Ruvena—” Damn, what was the other one’s name?

“Bran, Knight-Captain,” Bran supplies. 

“Right. Have you readied the cartel?” 

The four look awkwardly between one another before scrambling to untie and steady one of the boats. Cullen smothers a sigh. Rookies.

None of the other boats were missing, meaning Meredith hadn’t left yet. Or maybe she’d already been back. That would explain the urgency. If the Circle already had the Hawke girl, the family would put two and two together if she didn’t come home. 

The Knight-Commander wasn’t known for her patience, especially as of late. It wouldn’t surprise Cullen if she’d jumped the gun and apprehended the girl already. ‘Take care of’ could mean a lot of things. Cullen had just assumed Elsa meant arrest. It wasn’t exactly protocol, but Cullen wasn’t going to object to taking a criminal off the streets. 

The recruits have the cartel ready for take off in record time and Cullen steps over the lip and makes for the bow. Being the Knight-Captain had many perks, one of which was not having to row. His entourage follow him in and take their positions, two and two, on opposite sides of the small vessel as Hugh and Paxley push off the dock. 

The journey across the channel doesn’t take very long, but somehow the hush that falls over the rookies stretches the minutes dramatically. During the day, there’s at least bustling from both ports. Cargo ships docking and leaving Kirkwall, market criers trying to hock their wares, a drunken brawl or two. At night, there’s only the labored breathing of his men and the waves beating against the prow of the boat. It’s... awkward. 

“Do you know your assignment?” Cullen asks more to break the silence than anything else. 

“Yes, sir,” Ruvena replies, “The tranquil girl said we’re arresting the Darktown Healer’s family.”

Ah. He didn’t know that. Maybe Cullen should have listened to Elsa’s briefing.

“Correct,” he says, knowingly. “I suspect she also gave you a rundown on conduct?” 

That part Cullen does know. It basically boiled down to: _Don’t kill people if you can stand it, but if accidents happen, they happen._ And that was about the only rule. Unofficially. _Officially_ , there was a lot more jargon to weed though, but Meredith understood sometimes actions needed to be taken. 

Cullen gets scattered nods in response. 

“Good,” he says and can’t think of anything else to say. 

They dock in Kirkwall, by Cullen’s estimation, about an eternity later and he steps out of the cartel before it is fully secured and starts for Lowtown. 

Cullen knows where Hawke lives. He’d guessed there was something rotten about the family from the moment he’d spied sharp red eyes loitering around Hightown a year back. Since then, Cullen had taken it upon himself to keep tabs on the Amells. 

Mostly Hawke just did odd jobs to make ends meet. As far as Cullen could gather, both his mother and uncle contributed little, if anything, on their own, which left Hawke and his sister to carry the brunt of the family debt. Their situation must have gotten desperate though, since Hawke had recently accepted an expedition into the Deep Roads. He’d disappeared for a month or so, taking with him Cullen’s interest in keeping up with the family. 

Cullen is halfway down the dock when he hears the rookies hurry to fall into step behind him. He hopes they’d at least finished tying up the boat before following him. 

The Lowtown streets were quiet, most of its residents either tucked in their homes or tucked in their tankards at this hour. Beggars had crawled back to the underground and merchants had packed up their shops, which only left the gangs and guilds. Though, an escort of Templars had little reason to worry about them. 

The Guard hasn’t done much by way of dissolving the gangs in Kirkwall, though not for lack of trying. Cullen had to commend the new Guard Captain’s commitment to cleaning up the city, however futile an effort it was. It seemed like any time they’d managed to weed out one ringleader or another, someone else would step up to take their place just as quickly. 

Even organizational hierarchies aside, the turf wars and endlessly shifting alliances among the gangs themselves made it almost impossible to nail down names and numbers for the bands. Some days the Coterie had 30 members, some days it had 100. Some days the Dog Lords owned the upper quarter and some days they owned barely their quarter. But while the gangs warred with each other for territory, they never did so for monopoly. More gangs meant more confusion meant more targets for the Guard meant better odds of not getting caught. Cullen found it a little unsettling how organized the crime was in Kirkwall. At this rate, the gangs would own the city in the next decade. That wasn’t his burden to bear, though. The templars concerned themselves with the mages, not the syndicates. 

The streets to the Old Town Slums were lined with torches, rags and rubble. The residences themselves had been built on platforms for the rare occasions when the river flooded. Hurricanes never made it this far inland, but a particularly nasty storm could push the sea into the river and drown the docks for a few days. 

On their left as the street opens into a square, is the Amell residence. Cullen leads his men up the steps and tries to make a decision to just knock the rickety door in or not. It would certainly make an impression, but Cullen has already caught a few curious locals poking their heads out of windows and he isn’t in the mood to draw more attention. He doesn’t like being watched. 

He bangs a fist on the door instead. 

“Templars. Open up!” He calls. 

There’s a shuffling from behind the door. Cullen thinks he can make out a few hushed whispers inside, but the barking of a dog drowns out most of what’s said. When there’s no immediate answer, he bangs on the door again. 

This time, a skinny man with graying hair and a sour look peaks out from behind it. Gamlen Amell. Disappointing. 

Gamlen has only opened the door enough for Cullen to see a sliver of a back wall behind him and nothing else, but if Hawke was there, Cullen is certain he would have seen him. 

“What do you want?” Gamlen asks too abrasively for someone with such a punchable face. 

“Open,” Cullen orders, sounding just as unfriendly. “We have an arrest out for your family. Come out quietly or we will have no choice but to use force.” 

Gamlen shuts the door in his face. 

The hard way then. 

Cullen looks behind him, trying to decide which recruit would be the most likely to take on a door and win. 

“Ruvena,” he chooses at random, because he’s not confident any of them will manage. “Kick in the door.”

She nods and Cullen moves out of her way. With a hand on the knob, Ruvena rams her shoulder into the wood and, surprisingly, snaps the lock behind it. 

Then a few things happen at once. 

There’s a high pitched scream from inside the home echoed by a series of colorful expletives and someone says something that sounds suspiciously like ‘mutt’. 

Ruvena, clearly caught off guard by her own entrance, stumbles forward into the house and lands on all fours. 

Eager, or just wanting to help, both Praxley and Hugh rush in after her. 

A split second after Praxley crosses the threshold, however, a very large and very angry mabari lunges from somewhere to their right and tackles him, pushing Praxley back out the door and onto his back; The mabari snapping at his throat all the way down. Praxley manages to get an arm up just in time to block his jugular. Praxley screams. 

Hugh, who was knocked back by the Praxley-Mabari combo, stumbles backwards a few steps in shock and tries to draw his sword. Unfortunately, he misjudges the distance between himself and the edge of the platform and catches the lip with his heel and trips backwards over the side. Hugh screams. 

Bran, who was standing with Cullen by the door _and_ who has managed to stay on both feet, draws his sword next and levels it at the mabari. This would have been the most successful reaction of the group, except that Cullen likes dogs. 

Cullen meets Bran’s downswing with an upper that knocks the sword out of the rookie’s hand, exposing a grip that could probably use some work and that definitely sprains his wrist. Bran screams. 

All in all, Cullen probably has to give this round to the door. He can see why Meredith wanted them to get some exposure. 

Before the mabari has a chance to crush Praxley’s forearm, Cullen smacks the pommel of his sword into the back of its head and knocks it out. The dog slumps sideways off Praxley and Praxley crawls backward out from under it, looking frantic. 

By this point, Hugh has found his way back up the stairs and Ruvena back on her feet and standing awkwardly in the doorway. Bran is cradling his wrist against his chest and is struggling to sheath his sword with his off-hand. They all look at Cullen as though they aren’t sure where to go from here.

“Well, go arrest the family,” he urges. 

All four of them hurry into the home and Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before following them in. 

On entering the estate, Cullen is happy to at least find the kids have remembered to sweep the house. Paxley and Ruvena are in the process of cuffing Leandra and Gamlen near the hearth at the back wall while Bran and Hugh take to the two other rooms in the house. 

A small table and chairs have been overturned in the fuss and the desk on the wall to the left of Cullen has scattered letters across the floor. There’s a strange setup to Cullen’s right with pots and glass bottles and grenade casings that Cullen finds concerning but doesn’t examine too closely. The rest of the room is similarly sparse. A chest that probably shouldn’t be out in the open, a collection of gnawed animal bones, a tattered banner with no identifiable markings on it, a makeshift table made from a plank of wood and a couple barrels that holds only candles, and no sign of Hawke. 

Hugh and Bran return a moment later to tell him there’s no Hawke there either. 

“Where’s Garrett?” Cullen calls to the back of the room where the Amells are alternating between arguing with one another and shouting at their captors. 

“Release me!” Leandra orders. “I want to speak to the Viscount! To the Knight-Commander!”

“That isn’t going to happen. Tell me where your son is.”

“I want—” 

Ruvena punches her in the face. 

“What in the—!” Gamlen says at the same time Leandra cries “How dare you?!”

Cullen is losing patience quickly. 

“Tell me where Garrett is,” he says, this time like a warning. Gamlen swallows and Leandra glares. They both remain silent though. 

“I'll only ask once more—”

“We don’t know!” Gamlen snaps. “He’s all over the bloody city at all bloody hours. We don’t know where he goes. He’s here in the morning and returns at night covered in blood and shit and piss.”

Cullen considers his options. There were really only two. He could wait here for Hawke to get back _with_ the Amells or he could wait here for Hawke to get back _without_ the Amells. One of those options was a lot more appealing than the other. 

“Take them back to the Gallows,” Cullen says, gesturing vaguely back to the door. The recruits look between themselves, confused. 

“All…?” Hugh sort-of asks. 

“They really sent the cream of the crop after us,” Gamlen mutters and Cullen ignores him. 

“No, not all of you.” To be honest, Cullen doesn’t trust less than three of them to even find their way back to the boat, but he’s equally mistrustful of what he’ll do if he finds himself alone with Hawke. “Two of you escort them to a cell and then come back and wait for us at the docks. Hawke is bound to come home eventually so we’ll wait for him here.”

“What if he comes back soon?”

Cullen was exhausted. “Then _we’ll_ be waiting for _you_ at the docks.” 

“Oh. Yes, sir.”

Hawke did not come home soon. 

After the first ten minutes, the mabari outside started rousing. To avoid a repeat incident, Cullen and Hugh had hauled the massive creature into one of the back rooms and shut the door. 

After twenty minutes, Cullen had read all of Hawke’s mail and the mabari was barking again. 

After thirty, Cullen had made his way back into what was probably the Hawke sibling bedroom, if the triple-layered bunk was anything to hedge his bets on. He spent a good few minutes trying to decide which level Hawke was on. His first guess was the manicured bottom bunk, but perhaps Hawke was messy and he’d leave his covers strewn about like on the second. A conundrum. 

After an hour, Cullen started getting tired again. Fifth bell had rung by then his adrenaline had well worn off. The recruits were playing Wicked Grace with a deck of cards they’d dug up from somewhere, and the mabari in the opposite bedroom had finally given up trying to be threatening from behind a thick stone wall. Who was going to take care of it? Cullen would have to stop by in a day or two to make sure someone had come for it. 

After an hour and a half, Cullen has had time to think over his mabari plans. Two days would certainly have been too long to leave it in there. There was nowhere for it to potty and its water dish was out here. Cullen didn’t have enough scheduled time off to make it back here every day to feed it and he very much doubted Meredith would take well to him bringing an apostate’s dog home. Or any dog, probably. This was really a thinker. 

By an hour and forty-five minutes, Cullen had come up with a Dog Plan. It was pretty simple, actually. He was just going to send one of his men to tell the Guard Captain they’d arrested the Amell-Hawkes after they’d captured Hawke-Hawke. She was a friend of Garrett’s, as far as Cullen could tell, _and_ she was Ferelden, so she would look after his dog. Easy enough. 

After two hours, Hawke finally shows up. 

Cullen stands. He isn’t sure what he’d expected Hawke to do, but Hawke’s reaction is underwhelming all the same. He looks at the mess in his house, at the door his dog is pawing at, then at each templar until he lands on Cullen and asks, “Where’s Beth?” 

And that’s it. 

“Garrett Hawke,” Cullen says instead of answering. “We’re placing you under arrest for harboring an apostate.”

Hawke doesn’t respond. Instead, he seems like he’s sizing Cullen up, his red eyes sweeping across Cullen’s armor. It makes Cullen’s skin crawl and he hopes Hawke is dumb enough to take a swing. 

The recruits have put away their game, Paxley pocketing the deck while Hugh moves in a loose circle toward the front door. Hawke looks away from Cullen just long enough to follow Hugh’s path. Losing Hawke’s attention is almost as painful as having it. 

“Where’s Bethany?” He asks again, watching Hugh. 

“The Circle,” Cullen allots so Hawke will look at him again.

“And mother? Uncle?”

“In a holding cell.”

Apparently that’s all it takes to convince him. Hawke nods and unclasps one of the many belts slung across his waist and pulls the quiver off his hip, setting it and his bow on the table next to the doorway expectantly. 

Hugh and Praxley seem as surprised and Cullen is irritated. Cullen had been hoping for… something. He’d kept his men around because he’d known Hawke probably wouldn’t have made it back to the Gallows without them supervising, but Cullen had at least hoped for Hawke to resist. Put up some kind of fight. Literally anything other than surrender. 

“Concealing an apostate is a capital offense,” Cullen tries, marching at him as Hugh unhooks the manacles on his belt. But Hawke is either too niave or too stupid to comprehend what that means. He watches Cullen approach dispassionately, as though he’s mocking him. As though Cullen isn’t a threat. 

Hugh stepping in front of Hawke to lock his wrists together and breaking Cullen’s line of sight, is probably all that keeps Cullen from breaking Hawke’s jaw. 

Though, it doesn’t stop him from shouldering Hugh out of his way once he hears the shackles snap closed. Cullen takes Hawke by the bicep and shoves him backward out the door, palm burning through his glove where it meets skin. Hawke smells like the forest. Like dirt and elfroot and dogs. Like Ferelden and Cullen’s best memories and his worst ones.

If the recruits are following them, Cullen doesn’t pay attention as he spins Hawke around and pushes him off his porch. Hawke keeps his footing against the manhandling, taking the abuse with a dancer's grace. Soft steps barely a whisper against the stones as Cullen steers them in the direction of the docks. 

“What’ll happen to her?” Hawke asks, shooting him a backward glance that burns through Cullen’s armor. 

“You should be more concerned with what’s going to happen to you. Eyes forward,” Cullen says, punctuating the command with another shove. Hawke doesn’t ask again. 

Hawke moves through Lowtown like a wraith. His broad shoulders squared and step sure. He acts like a man on his way to a job rather than one on his way to the noose. He’s too quiet. Too reserved. Too unreadable. He must be planning something. Cullen is waiting for it. For him to run or to fight or to _something—_ but he just walks. He walks and he stares and he doesn’t do anything _._ By the time they finally descend into the harbor, Cullen’s sword arm is itching. 

Behind him, the recruits are talking quietly to each other about something Cullen hasn’t been paying attention to. 

“—sister’s been asking.”

“The blue-eyed biddy from the Chantry courtyard?”

“Yeah. Been there every day for a week waiting for him.”

“Where is he?”

“Went off with Wilmod to do the Knight-Commander’s ritual.”

“Ah. Think she offed him?”

There’s a hiss that sounds suspiciously like a _shh_ and the clang of metal on metal. 

Cullen squints, momentarily distracted from his own spiralling paranoia. Ritual? What in the Void kind of gossip were the rank and file spreading now? He’d have to follow up on with Meredith about it. 

Somehow, the four of them reach the docks without Cullen skewering Hawke (or either recruit), but it’s a close thing. 

By the cartel, Bran has been replaced by some other rookie Cullen doesn’t recognize, but who presumably has a functional wrist to row with. She and Ruvena are sitting on the dock giggling about something Cullen doesn’t, and has no interest in catching. When they hear the group coming, they begin readying the boat for departure. At least they learn fast. 

Cullen maneuvers Hawke down into the boat, stepping in first himself and then letting Hawke brace cuffed hands on his pauldron to lower himself in as Cullen steadies him with a glove at his elbow. It’s not the most delicate maneuver, but neither of them go toppling over the side, so Cullen considers it a win. He pushes Hawke to the bow as two of the men untie the quarter and forward breasts for castoff. 

The water is choppy at night, but Cullen stands over Hawke anyway. In the unlikely event he tries to swim with his arms tied together, he won’t get far. 

The trip passes in a silence Cullen doesn’t try to break this time, too absorbed in watching Hawke watch the waves. Every once in a while, Cullen will catch Praxley or Hugh or Ruvena shooting him a curious look out of the corner of his eye. When they side up to the dock, Cullen leaves them to attend the boat. 

He hauls Hawke out of the cartel by the bicep and matches him toward the iron gates of the Gallows. The courtyard is barren save for a few guards bent over an old storage crate, a pile of coppers and a pair of dice sitting atop it. A betting pool for one game or another. They straighten when they notice Cullen approaching. 

“Knight-Captain,” one salutes and the others hurriedly follow suit. Cullen nods in dismissal. He isn’t going to scold them for entertaining themselves, not much happens in the Gallows at night. 

During the day, the courtyard is bustling with mages and templars and the occasional salesman or thrifter. The stalls are laden with books and baubles neither the templars nor the mages have any use for but like to browse anyway. It’s lively and loud and familiar. 

The Gallows at night is an entirely different scene. The courtyard leers instead of blusters. The ancient Trevine statues cast long shadows across the courtyard and the sea breeze whistles through the cracks in the stone like a woman wailing. The great arches seem to shrink and bend inwards like curious voyeurs. Every noise echos off the walls as if to mock you. The whole atmosphere is perverted. Cullen couldn’t say he cares for it.

Cullen ushers Hawke to the Templar Hall where another large, open courtyard spreads out ahead of them. The yard is sparse. Along the back wall a collection of training dummies sit out for evening training but little else except banners and torches fill the yard. 

One thing Cullen sorely misses in the Gallows, and throughout Kirkwall, is greenery. To see any trees or shrubs or grass, you have to leave the city entirely. The dungeons under the Gallows, if it could really be called that, offers a glimpse of flora here and there, but more than anything else it was just a glorified cave. Nothing but lichen and moss survive down there. 

Cullen guides Hawke up another set of stairs, past the offices and to the back of the yard where an unobtrusive wooden door breaks the monotony of cobblestone. On one side, a sconce is lit to offer a meager thread of light amongst the otherwise darkened courtyard. 

With the mage, Bethany, already captured and being inducted into the Circle, there will be no formal trial for the Amell-Hawke family. The case will be brought to the Viscount and a collection of sitting justices in time. 

No one can say how they will rule, of course, but the law of the land says hanging and a Lowtown family rarely has clout enough to dodge the noose. The Gallows Prison is host to more than just the Amells though, and every mage sympathizer and Collective member in lockup has a case sitting on the Viscount’s desk. It will still be a while before theirs is brought forward. Cullen gives it three weeks, maybe a month, before they swing. Hawke was going to spend his last days behind bars.

The descent into the prisons brings a chill that prickles against Cullen’s armor and raises gooseflesh on Hawke’s arms. Cullen’s shawl is practically useless and he suppresses a shiver. The stairwell eventually levels out to a cramped hallway that eventually opens up to the prison proper. Two tiers of housing cells layer the underground facility where inmates are held, lit by torches between each and patrolled by a dyad of Templars per level. 

It occurs to Cullen that Meredith probably expects him to interrogate Hawke. If his sister is the Darktown Healer, Hawke probably knows who else she’s connected to. They’d had reports of her striking deals with the local gangs, but to what end, the Order hadn’t worked out yet. Maybe Hawke could shed some light on what she got up to. 

Existing the corridor, Cullen steers Hawke in the direction of an interrogation room instead of toward a cell. The room is set back out of the way of the rest of the facility, tucked between a wall and a staircase. It has a table, a chair, and precious little else. 

Hawke stands in the center of it. 

“Sit down,” Cullen says, shoving Hawke toward the table. 

“You’re charged with—”

“Already know,” Hawke interrupts. Cullen feels his blood boil. 

“You’re charged with aiding and abetting an apostate and suspicion of conspiracy to undermine the Circle.” 

Hawke doesn’t say anything. 

“What do you say for yourself?”

“Where’s mother?” Cullen ignores him. 

“Does your sister run the clinic in Darktown?”

“No.”

“You spend a lot of time down there.”

“No.”

“Is she a spirit healer?”

“No.” 

“What kind of mage is she then?”

“No kind.”

Cullen wants to hit him. 

“Who is—?” 

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t fucking interrupt me.” 

Silence. 

“Do you know how we found Bethany?” Cullen tries instead. 

Hawke doesn’t answer him. 

“The men your uncle works with came forward.” Cullen says. “He’d thrown his back out one day and was somehow lifting cargo the next. It sounded like a miracle.” It’s a bluff. Cullen isn’t actually certain how Meredith tracked Bethany down. What he _does_ know is that Gamlen Amell had turned up on a list the templars kept of individuals who’ve cried miraculous healing. The updates make their rounds to Cullen’s desk every so often, but rarely have any useful information. If the templars interrogated every person on the list, they’d risk tipping the Healer off and sending them — or her, apparently — into hiding. Cullen had assumed Gamlen was just another poor bastard the Healer had taken pity on, but Meredith must have noticed something he missed. 

“People don't like your uncle,” Cullen says after a pause, leaning on the small table to come to eye level with Hawke. That much was true. Gamlen was a cheat and a liar with none of the charm. “Many of those people gave statements. You’re lying to me.”

Hawke sits with his hands in his lap, eyes boring holes through Cullen’s armor, but he still doesn’t say anything. He just stares with those fucking eyes. 

Cullen feels hot, like a fever is setting in. Like he’s standing too close to a fire. Like the room is a hearth and he’s the kindling. He doesn’t look away from Hawke— or can’t look away from him. Shouldn’t. His pulse beats loud in his ears, blood searing his veins. And Hawke just watches, waiting for him to burn. 

“Say something,” Cullen snaps, slamming a fist on the table, causing it to shake dangerously on rickety legs.

Something flashes in Hawke’s eyes, disgust or disinterest, and it’s familiar in a way that pulls Cullen into the past. A hundred memories surge into his mind at once, like a levy breaking they flood over him. They beat against his mind’s eye like waves on a shore, dancing in and out of view before he has time to process them. They claw at his throat and beg him to look, listen. To chase them, to get lost. They’re red. So red. Always so much red. It’s on the walls and the floors, on his armor and under his nails and in their magic. Cullen can’t get it off him, can’t scrub it from his skin any more than he can his mind. It’s inside him now and it always will be. 

Cullen’s blood runs red. He sees heretics and abominations and maleficarum in front of him and behind. 

“Nothing to say to you,” Hawke responds, and it sounds like rejection. 

In a flash, Cullen's glove tangles in Hawke’s hair and he slams his face against the table. It hits so hard Hawke’s head bounces and for a moment he looks dazed. Caught off guard, Hawke pulls away and tries to stand all in one motion, tipping his chair over in the process, and tripping over it as he tries to back away from Cullen. 

He lands hard, hitting his head on the floor with enough force to give himself a concussion. Hawke flounders for a second, trying to get his bearings as he rolls on his side and kicks the chair away from himself. Cullen rounds the table just as Hawke makes it back to his feet, holding his hands to his nose as blood spills down his forearms. Before he is completely right himself, he catches Cullen’s fist with his jaw. 

Hawke stumbles again with the blow, but manages to keep his footing this time. 

Cullen stalks after him. “You deserve to hang.” And Cullen isn’t sure who he’s talking to. 

Hawke backs into the wall, plastering himself against it like he might be able to sink into the stone. Cullen grabs him by the collar and pins him against the wall. Holding him is like standing in his own pyre. 

“Mages can’t be trusted. They can’t be treated like you and I. Demons and blood mages and maleficarum, that’s all they are. They’re not real people, they’re just pretending to be. Do you hear me?” 

But Hawke isn’t listening. He’s trying to pull out of Cullen’s grip. He’s not _listening._ Cullen slams him against the wall as Hawke claws at his bracer. 

“Your negligence endangers everyone in the city. Do you not understand that?”

“Fuck you,” He spits so Cullen hits him again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Until Hawke is a bloodied mess at his feet. Until the yellow of his bruises start to purple. Until those turn black. Until his face swells and nose breaks and lips split. Until he looks like someone Cullen could forgive. 

Hawke curls in on himself, holding his face in his hands as blood, snot and saliva dribble between his fingers, but he doesn’t make a sound. 

In one quick motion, Cullen drives his boot down onto the chain of Hawke’s handcuffs, forcing his hands away from his face as Cullen uses his weight to keep them pinned. Hawke doesn’t struggle, keeping his eyes downcast as his fingers flex against the floor as though he’s trying to dig through the stones— or trying to strangle them. 

So Cullen goes to him. He kneels in front of Hawke, taking a fistful of his hair and pulling his head up to admire his work. 

Hawke’s right eye has mostly swelled shut. The break in his nose curves the bridge slightly to the right, burst capillaries spiderwebbing outward to criss cross over a purple cheekbone. The left side of his face is stained wine red and verbena violet all the way down his neck, his collarbone, and disappears under his shirt. His lip tore on Cullen’s gauntlet, ripping almost through to his teeth. Cullen follows the trail of blood and spit to Hawke’s chin where it mats in his beard. 

When Hawke looks at him, his eyes still cut. They still strip Cullen of his armor and doublet and smalls and they still slice at his skin. They still pull the air from his lungs and they still make his heart race. 

They still hurt, but they don’t burn. 

They don’t remind Cullen of being vulnerable. And they don’t remind him of feeling helpless or afraid. They don’t chase him into his memories. They don’t tease his paranoia, and they don’t mock his pain. They don’t scare him. 

Painted in purples and yellows and reds, Hawke stops looking like a spectre. But Cullen hits him harder to make sure he stays that way. 


End file.
